


Expressions

by HermioneSparta



Series: Snapshots [2]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 23:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4456877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermioneSparta/pseuds/HermioneSparta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let it never be said that expression was not a matter of opinion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expressions

**Title:**  Expression  
**Author:**  HermioneSparta  
**Rating:**  T  
**Disclaimer:** The Law and Order: SVU franchise, fandom, characters, canon situations (et al) in the following story belong to Dick Wolf and NBC.  
**Summary** : Let it never be said that expression was not a matter of opinion.

He turned from the window, fingers tracing the wood grain as they fell to his side. Cold, winter wind rattled the old glass.

The sound wasn't nearly as interesting as his visitor.

He'd heard of the illustrious George Huang from numerous sources, most of them credible. He was often described as a quiet, insightful man. Reserved and private, his work with the FBI and SVU made him either hated or beloved in the courts.

The fact that he was of multiple minority status only added to the appeal.

Oddly enough, his romantic inclinations were mere afterthoughts.

It was strange to note, considering how gossip all but ran through the pipes in their field.

Rafael Barba was intrigued by many strange things. In the end, they could often be explained. If not, well…

That's where you could make any argument you wished.

He truly did love being in law **.**

The man before him, however, did not entirely fit the picture they all had painted. Hand curled around the glass of whiskey, the quiet sounds filtering through the walls didn't seem to register.

Huang looked similar to the pictures from years past, if only accounting for the difference in his eyes. They held the shadows of one hunted who had barely escaped with their life.

"Are you finished examining me, counselor?"

He felt his lips twitch and let the smile grow.

"For now," he admitted as he took his seat once more.

"You're wondering why my behavior no longer matches the memories they have told you."

"Yes."

Their eyes met, and words became unnecessary.

A table between them, sipping their own drinks with melting ice and warming food, became the page on which they wrote. Tales unvoiced, shared with the mere knowledge of human suffering, were understood with sorrowful ease.

For an hour, with the opaque doors acting as a flimsy barrier against a bloody world, their titles did not define them. There was no dutiful son with a pessimistic view of human nature, nor a disowned disgrace who understood the mind's silent turmoil. The weight of the crimes they followed, the survivors they assisted, the colleagues they supported, could not touch them here.

The expression of self became a desperate, necessary vulnerability. There was no weakness to be found when safety was given, no shame to be had when truth was requested. The solitary moment of comradery assured a few minutes of peace.

For now, the demons of truth- of ignorance long ago lost- could not preside.

As the last, lukewarm swallow of liquid fire blazed a trail down their throats, the lingering taste of smoke and freedom soured.

Reality would no longer be denied.


End file.
